


Not All Stories Are Written For Happy Endings

by thedevil_andgod



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band), 5SOS
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Sexual Content, explicit drug usage, mentions of drugs/drug abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 12:48:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2773532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevil_andgod/pseuds/thedevil_andgod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Idk I don't really think this is any good but I haven't posted something in ages. I love 5SOS, I'm a total Michael girl and I'm just a sucker for angst.</p></blockquote>





	Not All Stories Are Written For Happy Endings

It all starts with a game of truth or dare, which escalates into a full on, rowdy game of Seven Minutes in Heaven.   
You end up with Michael, the two of you shit faced and giggling into the darkness as you stand, barely a foot apart, in the small cupboard.   
At first neither of you want to start something. When you do kiss, it's a gentle bump of the lips, a second long, before suddenly hands are everywhere and hair is pulled, necks exposed in order for desperate mouths to suck down on the pale skin there, moans painting the dark air as something like fire ignites inside your bodies.   
Seven minutes pass, but it doesn't end there. Retiring to bed he pulls you along with him, a smirk across his face, your splotchy purple bruises patterning his collarbones like tattoos. The night is long and you fuck, hard, fast, the kind of fucking where the springs under the mattress creak and the headboard gets broken and the other guys moan at you the next morning for keeping them awake.   
You don't know if they do hear, because you wake up the morning after and slip out from under his muscled arm, watching him scrunch his face up in his sleep as you dress hastily, going into the bathroom to wipe away the lipstick stains and mascara tracks and smudged eyeliner as best you can, before sneaking out and back to your house.

The next time you see him, you're barely walking straight still and he looks proud of that. He smacks your ass and compliments you on the tight black dress you're wearing, and you respond by biting your lip and shrugging, saying he doesn't scrub up too bad either.   
You link arms with a boy you knew from high school - Jack - and you make waves with him on the dance floor, he holds your hips and grazes his teeth on your neck, not knowing someone else's marks are there, hidden under concealer and fabric. Michael growls at you in the kitchen as you leave lipstick stains around a green beer bottle, before tilting back your head, grasping the bright blue hair at the nape of your neck and kissing you so hard and so fiery, it feels like you're burning from the inside out.   
Again, you're the one who leaves in the morning before even the birds have begun to sing. 

It becomes a habit, party, drink, sleep with Michael, sneak out, repeat.   
Neither of you ask the other if this is exclusive, but you don't sleep with anyone else, and neither does he.   
You get into a bad crowd. Added into your mix are cocaine and MDMA, and one night you bump into the head of light lilac hair, his lips falling into a slack o of surprise when he takes in your dilated pupils and shaky posture.   
He drags you into the empty disabled bathroom and shakes you, hands gripping either bony shoulder. The scoop vest top you're wearing makes it so his hard calloused palms are pressed against your bare skin, making it hard to concentrate on anything but the flush in his cheeks, the plumpness of his lips.   
'Are you high?'   
You giggle and slide down, unbuckling his jeans and easing his throbbing cock into your mouth.   
You won't remember this in the morning, but hey. Carpe diam.   
He returns the favour, your legs around his shoulders, face buried deep into your dripping core as you writhe and twist and arch your back. You wriggle back into your clothes, take a sip from your drink before tossing into the trash and sauntering away with a careless goodbye tossed over your shoulder. 

Two weeks later, you see him again. You know how shit you look, pale, purple circles under your eyes, baggy jeans and an old hoody hanging off your frame.   
He doesn't look so hot either, his hair is now bleached blonde and sticks up in tufts like a scarecrow. His eyes are red from lack of sleep; he's been as restless as you from the looks of things.   
There's no asking why you're both in a coffee shop at seven am.   
'What's up?' His voice is low and rumbly, like gravel.   
You shrug your shoulders, mumble something about too many benders and college assignments, and he's working on the album, there's constant rehearsals and partying and girls, so he says. You raise an eyebrow.   
'Girls, huh?' You question playfully.   
A dark shadow crosses his bright emerald eyes.   
'For the other boys, yeah.'   
'None for you?'   
'You never come around anymore.'   
That sentence is like an anchor, pulling down the fragile friendly atmosphere surrounding you, replacing it with tension, and accusations, and feelings unsaid.   
You bite your lip. Apologise and then turn on your heels and practically sprint for the door.   
You're always running. You never seem to stop. 

The one and only time he runs away from you, is the day he catches you snorting coke first hand, and you try to cop off with him to get him to stop yelling. You let the words shoot from his mouth, the 'why are you doing this to yourself' and the 'we could be something amazing' and the 'I don't think I can do this much longer' before he turns and slams out the hotel door, and you trace his steps across the floor, the indents from his runners on the soft beige carpet. You touch the cool wooden frame of the door before shaking your head and deciding to sleep off the high you didn't even want anymore. 

Four weeks later you're clean, he's less stressed and for a while, it's like old times. For a while, it's like there's an actual relationship. There's kisses and cuddles to go with the sex, cute text messages and movie nights in and you stay, every night, every morning you're in his arms when you both wake up.   
It lasts a month. 

The argument is awful. There's hoarse throats from screaming, broken glass and plastic littered around the floor from where the closest item had been flung at each others heads.   
His accusations that you were still taking the drugs made you boil with hatred for him not trusting you, and you lash out with accusations of your own, about unfaithfulness, infidelity, sending him into a spiralling rage.   
There's a party you're both due to attend, Luke's - you know he'll be annoyed if you miss it, so you get dressed up and drive in a frosty silence, parting ways as soon as you enter the house. Michael really does cheat that night, you find him in the kitchen wrapped around a brunette you don't recognise, hands grasping her ass like its the only thing keeping him above water. You storm out, intent on hiding the tears until you're alone, but he follows you, crying too, begging for forgiveness, begging for another chance. You ignore it all, pretend like each word he says doesn't feel like a dagger to your heart, opening up the cracks and letting it crash and splinter at your feet.   
He stands at your door, yelling through the wood, knocking relentlessly until his knuckles are bruised, until the neighbours yell at him to shut the fuck up and he falls asleep in the hallway, slumped against the wall.   
You're sitting with your back against the opposite side of the door, knees pulled to your chest, breathy sobs tearing through you.   
You edge open the door eventually, he's still asleep, looking so innocent and beautiful and peaceful; until you notice her neon pink lipstick smudged across his cheek.   
It's not the first morning you sneak away while he's sleeping, but this time, it's the last.

**Author's Note:**

> Idk I don't really think this is any good but I haven't posted something in ages. I love 5SOS, I'm a total Michael girl and I'm just a sucker for angst.


End file.
